


Latissimus Dorsi

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, old fic dump, super fluffy, there's a tattoo?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 02:26:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock notices something unique about Greg when they're in bed together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Latissimus Dorsi

**Author's Note:**

> [Illustration here.](http://geniusbee.tumblr.com/post/18490593186)

“Sher…” 

Sherlock looked up as Greg’s voice broke the stillness. The old detective lifted his head from his pillow and glanced over his shoulder, blearily trying to find him in the darkness. 

“What’re you doin?” He slurred, still half-asleep. 

Sherlock shushed him, and returned his hand to the middle of Greg’s back. “There’s something wrong here,” he answered quietly. 

The punk-turned-detective-inspector shifted, pushing himself up with one hand. Almost immediately, Sherlock moved to hold him down. 

“Stop,” he demanded. “Lay flat on your stomach, with your arms above your head.”

Greg’s expression hardened. Honestly, he would have preferred to grab Sherlock by his curly hair, pull him back down into bed and wrap him up in a warm, comforting hug until they both fell asleep — but as ever, he did as the younger man asked. 

Sherlock moved quickly, straddling his legs to that he could run his hands in parallel lines down Greg’s back. “It’s uneven.” 

“What is, my spine?” If Greg hadn’t been so tired, he might have been more concerned.

“No,” Sherlock answered. “These muscles.” His thin, cold fingers traced a line from the small of Greg’s back, near the waistband of his pyjamas, up and around to his ribs. The DI shivered, but didn’t interrupt him. “Latissimus dorsi,” Sherlock mused. “The right side is smooth, but here-” He stopped to prod an almost imperceptible cleft just under Greg’s ribs. “There’s something here.” 

Greg stretched, brushing his toes against the bottom of the bed and casually ignoring the pops and creaks of his body protesting, when all it wanted was sleep. “Yeah, I know.”

“Why?” 

“Why, what?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Why is it there? What happened?” 

“Accident about… what, ten years ago, now? Fell onto a metal girder, tore the muscle.”

It wasn’t a satisfactory answer for Sherlock — but so few things were. “But I didn’t see it,” he murmured, running his hands over Greg’s back again. “I’ve never observed…” He trailed off, deftly poking at other subtle dips and noting each mark and scar. 

“Well, how often do you look at my back?”

“This muscle-” Sherlock pressed two fingers to the anomaly that had first caught his attention. It went rigid as Greg flinched. “Should hinder your ability to walk normally when damaged.”

“Yeah, thanks for that!” 

“But there’s hardly any scar tissue. You don’t limp.”

“I shuffle,” Greg grumbled.

“But you don’t limp,” Sherlock repeated. “You should. I should have seen it.” 

“Maybe you missed it.”

Sherlock glared — not that Greg could see it. “I don’t miss things,” he hissed.

“You missed this.”

“Go back to sleep.”

Greg rested his head on the pillow, smiling despite Sherlock’s ill humour. “Only if you join me.” 

“No, I-…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He wasn’t sure how, frankly. There were things he didn’t know about Greg, and that both amused and perplexed him. Rather than reply, he leaned forward, eyes narrowing as he traced the small details and contours of Greg’s back again. 

“Sherlock…” Greg protested, half-heartedly.

“Go back to sleep,” the consulting detective repeated.

“Lad, you’re on my legs.” 

“You won’t notice if you close your eyes.” 

“Like hell I won’t,” he muttered, reluctantly obeying. 

But he couldn’t ignore those firm, decisive touches all along his skin — and he certainly couldn’t sleep. Sherlock didn’t stop; Greg could feel the warmth of his breath across his shoulder blades as Sherlock silently examined the minutiae that he wouldn’t have otherwise seen. He noticed the gentle way Sherlock’s fingers would glide down his spine, stop, and take a smooth detour over his ribs. Even in the darkness of his bedroom, the young detective managed to find every freckle, every scar, every imperfection that Greg had — and more that he hadn’t even realised were there.

In the silence, he wondered if Sherlock had noted the way his heartbeat quickened the longer they touched.


End file.
